


Happiness

by Ealasaid



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:45:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You throw an arm around Slick and pull him close, thinking that you might have to try to come up with ways to make him just this happy again sometime. It’d be real nice to see that smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happiness

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Sannam's http://sannam.tumblr.com/post/11029087398/yamitami-asked-you

There was something really strange about Slick, you think as said mobster breaks into your house through the kitchen window with his usual aplomb. The shadow man was _smiling,_  and not so much in an “I’m going to rip your face off” way as an “I just got a Scottish Terrier, bitches” sort of way. If you didn’t know him any better, you could say Slick was genuinely and ebulliently happy for possibly the first time in his life… though he was also somewhat tipsy. The mobster slammed a bottle of something on the table and without further ado, hauled you up by his collar and smashed your faces together in what could possibly be construed as a long, breathless kiss.

“We fucking got them,” Slick said when he pulled away. “Fucking destroyed that mansion and all those clocks of theirs and made off with everything.  _Everything!”_  And before you can comment, the mobster drags you in again, this time long enough for you to put aside talking in favor of fumbling for buttons.

After a bit you’re both sitting at the table significantly less dressed and rather disheveled. Slick, of all things  _humming_ , is busily forcing the bottle to give up what promises to be some really nice whiskey when you manage to ask him what the hell he’s going on about.

“Here’s the thing,” he says as his face lights up like it’s Christmas and he doesn’t put anti-Santa booby traps around his chimney just to try to take out Old Saint Nick. He slides a glass of the whiskey over to you and you take a sip as he slugs his back and then starts animatedly narrating a real wham-bang-smash tale that’s pretty hard boiled, considering it’s about kicking in a rival gang’s sandcastle rather than knocking over some law-abiding folks’ bank.

“Wait, you mean you burned down the Felt’s mansion?” you ask incredulously when his face gets all scrunched up with glee as he describes the flames contrasting with “shitty green walls and shit.” “Why the hell did’ya do that?”

Slick laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in his life. He laughs until there are literal tears coming from his eyes and all you can do is look at him cockeyed and decide you need another drink. “Because,” he says when he finally catches his breath, “I fucking could! No one there to stop me or nothin’.” He gratuitously pours you both more whiskey as you mask a smile at his impeccable line of reasoning. You’re not a huge fan of arson or massive property destruction, but you can appreciate the thought of the Felt being entirely out of their depth, comically wandering the streets with no garishly green headquarters to hide in after whatever heist they pull in a city that spans the color scale from white to black.

More to the point, you can appreciate the insanely happy mood Slick is in because of it. “To the Felt!” he slurs and raises his glass in a sloppy salute. “May their architecture never blight this city again?” you suggest, and he drags you in for another kiss after you both down your drinks.

This time you end up sprawled on top of him on the couch in the other room, and you roll off him to let him breathe. He’s all smug contentedness and total relaxation, something else you’ve never seen. He finishes telling you dreamily about the shit they lifted from the property before they torched it as you share something like your fourth or fifth drink. It wouldn’t be fair to say you’re drunk, but you’re feeling all fuzzy and warm when you watch him and that’s just as judgement-warping as the alcohol.

Slick leaned up against you when you came back with his drink and now he’s reclined back across your lap, snagging kisses from you with alarming rapidity. It’s not about the contention tonight, there’s no grab for power: just a lot of ridiculous— you have to say it—  _sweetness_ to the interaction, and frankly you’re flabbergasted because it’s so far out of character that it’s almost alarming— but then he presses back up against you and you’re lost in the sensation of slowly sweeping through his mouth and the way your noses rub together when he decides to change direction in contrast to the fierce battle usually waged with bloodied mouths and bruised cartilage, and before you realize it you mumble “I love you” during a brief interlude when you both pause to breathe.

He laughs and tells you you’re drunk, but he does it wearing the same smile he broke into your apartment with. This time you kiss him first before you pull away and tell him he’s drunk too, which ends with a long bit of more tongues and lips and noses, and eventually arms and legs and other things added as well.

It’s when you both lie exhaustedly entangled on the couch together, drowsing, that he mumbles those words back against your throat, tucking himself under your chin and curling up against your chest. You throw an arm around him and pull him close, thinking that you might have to try to come up with ways to make him just this happy again sometime. It’d be real nice to see that smile.


End file.
